


Valse di Fantastica

by solarbishop



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Ballroom Dancing, Canon Divergence, Crushes, First Dance, Fluff, M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pining, Slow Dancing, Waltzing, pre-game
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-03-14
Packaged: 2018-09-26 11:11:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,754
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9893045
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solarbishop/pseuds/solarbishop
Summary: The evening ball is tomorrow. Noctis cannot waltz to save his life, and Gladiolus has a crush on the prince.





	1. Two Left Feet

**Author's Note:**

> *Chucks out another GladNoct story at 4:00am in the morning* Hope you enjoy :')
> 
> It may be canon divergent, Idk, I'm just trying to cover all bases for the liberites I may be taking. Also pre-game, so we'll say that Noctis is about 18-19yro in this and that Gladio has his sweet tatts and his facial scar.
> 
> Do you ever consider that Gladio is highranking in terms of nobility, especially regarding how Amicitia is an esteemed household bound to the line of Lucis? To me, it always feel like I forget about that until Gladio goes on about cup noodles and Prompto makes a comment about his previous fine dining.
> 
> Perhaps he'd be like, Lord Gladiolus Amicitia, or some such, so I feel like he'd know some extra things.

There is no acceptable explanation for why his heart flutters when the Noctis retrieves his wooden sword, his hand brushing against his own. The touch was airy, sheepish, and frustrated, vaguely reminiscent to how Noctis shies from questioning, critical crowds, and still his skin pleasantly tingles from the contact of his fingers. An audible sigh of irritation escapes through his nose as he shoves aside such intrusive and needless sensations.

 

“I’m _trying_ ,” snaps Noctis, returning to his combative stance. His face is flushed from exertion and his chest heaves for precious breath.

 

Gladiolus curses inwardly. Of course, the prince took it the wrong way, and he would almost feel guilty if Noctis would stop being so sloppy. With a gruff expression marring his features, the Shield approaches the younger man, knocks his feet further apart with his own wooden blade, and lowers his lithe body closer to the ground. He rolls his eyes at the aching protest tumbling from that moaning mouth, but a secret fraction of his mind rather enjoys their close proximity.

 

Except Noctis retaliates and radiates with anger, shoving him away and dropping his wooden sword, which thuds against the training mat. His shoulders tense, and he threads a hand through his hair, damp with sweat, and tries vainly to compose himself. He appears ready to warp distances away at a moment’s notice, but he does not. His pretty lips stammer for some excuse, explanation, or even apology, but he falls far short of saying anything.

 

In response, his body jerks forward to retain his balance. Gladiolus trudges up to the prince, yanks onto the front of his protective gear, and with menace growls, “What the hell is with you today?”

 

“It’s nothing, I just—” The way Noctis suddenly stops speaking infuriates the larger man, but he somehow manages to hold onto his patience. Noctis breaks that intimidating and intense eye contact that Gladiolus is giving, choosing instead to stare at the ground. Gladiolus watches how his tongue darts to wet his lips with an odd fascination, and it nearly puts him off. Noctis speaks again, slowly, “I just . . . can’t really concentrate.”

 

Gladiolus does not release him, but his grip does loosen. “Why?”

 

“It’s stupid.”

 

“Talk.”

 

“It’s that thing I gotta do tomorrow,” he grumbles. “It’s pointless, and I don’t see why I should go.”

 

The Shield blinks, incredulous and annoyed. “You’re distracted from training because of the ball?”

 

“It’s not _just_ about the ball, Gladio.” Noctis scoffs, so very exasperated, and what wouldn’t Gladiolus do to figure why he is so distressed. The prince successfully slaps his hand from his protective gear and steps away from the larger man. “Look, it doesn’t matter. I told you it was stupid.”

 

He has those sullen blue eyes that cause his chest to weirdly ache. “Then help me understand, Noct.”

 

Noctis circles around on his heel, back facing his Shield, and fidgets with his fingers. He shifts his weight between both of his feet nervously. “I—I. Uhm.”

 

Gladiolus only raises a curious brow, but his silence bears a heavy weight.

 

Noctis sheepishly turns around again and his face expresses a pouty discomfort. “I can’t dance,” he mumbles, and Gladiolus almost misses it.

 

Noctis was always the pretty wallflower that shied from the prying crowd, the questions of sycophants and the hands of noble ladies. That trained regality with which Noctis carries himself combined with his natural beauty and political position invites all sorts of interest—and his lithe frame can fill a suit well. His skin is fair and smooth, and his hair is soft and messy, perfectly framing his face. Not to mention that those blue eyes, capturing the essence of night, are especially enchanting.

 

Gladiolus isn’t sure where that line of thought was going, but it was certainly going somewhere.

 

Right, Noctis can’t dance, and he probably doesn’t want to embarrass himself. Well, it makes sense, sort of.

 

“Haven’t you had dance instructors, Highness?” Gladiolus questions, tapping his wooden sword against the red sole of his boot.

 

“Plenty, but I kept stumbling and stepping on their toes and I couldn’t keep time and—the motions didn’t make sense.” His cheeks puff with embarrassment before deflating, returning his eye contact with Gladiolus. His tone sounds resigned and defeated, and Gladiolus wonders if he could beat that negative attitude out of him. But he also wonders how Noctis managed to distance himself from this sort of thing and whether or not Ignis knows. “Dad is making me go, and I feel like an utter ass.”

 

“You’re ass.”

 

“You’re fired.” There is no real bite to his tone.

 

Gladiolus snorts and without thinking blurts, “Bet that I could get you to waltz.” The Shield minutely freezes, caught off guard by his own declaration, and he is suddenly nervous to hear the prince’s response. His hands start to feel clammy as he anticipates a less than positive response. However, much to his surprise, the prince appears inquisitive and disbelieving, almost as if he is actually considering the proposition. It is odd, even thrilling, and his stomach does a small flip.

 

After a moment of thought, Noctis clears his throat, flustered, and settles his hands onto his hips, “I never pegged you for the kind of guy who enjoys the waltz.”

 

“I never said I _enjoyed_ it.” Which is true; he doesn’t. However, being a son of the esteemed Amicitia family required that he learn crucial court functions and how to behave within the upper class. (Yet, the wallflower prince of Lucis says that he is incapable of dancing, and Gladiolus could laugh at the irony of it all.) His own dance tutors employed strict formalities and had unforgiving personalities, and Gladiolus cannot place another time where he felt so rigid and tense before a woman. He was even chastised for being all awkward angles; Gladiolus had forced himself to relax for the sake of learning. Regardless, he knows has dabbled in the art.

 

Again, Noctis appears thoughtful, and Gladiolus can see those beautiful eyes staring and searching for an answer in some distance. Noctis clicks his tongue in disagreement, and the Shield wells with a surge of odd disappointment that does not need to be present.

 

“No,” he says eventually, shaking his head. “You’re way too tall, and I’d probably step on your toes a lot.”

 

He expected a different kind of answer. Smoothly, Gladiolus plays off his unwanted disappointment with a shrug, bends to retrieve the prince’s fallen weapon, and offers its hilt to Noctis, which he takes into those pretty hands.

 

Noctis shifts into a combative stance, the proper stance for combat Gladiolus notes with satisfaction, holding his sword offensively. “You should come with me,” he says, nonchalant. “Maybe everyone will leave me alone when they turn tail at your face.”

 

Too amused to be offended, Gladiolus shakes his head at his reclusive nature, something he knows that he should not encourage, but he could not find it in his heart to say no to the request. “Whatever you want, princess.”

 

“Great. Let’s dance.” Noctis inches closer to his Shield with his wooden weapon.

 

Gladiolus can clearly see a renewed spark of focus behind those eyes. He raises his own weapon in defense, ready to counter anything that Noctis will throw at him.

 

Finally, he thinks, some results.

 

His breath hitches when Noctis smiles.

 

Fuck.


	2. Shit, He's Cute

            His knuckles rap against the apartment door, and he awkwardly shifts his weight between his feet as he waits for the prince. He smooths the wrinkles from his black, military uniform before threading his hands through his hair to undo any knots. He stops when he realizes that he is _preening_ , wondering why the hell his stomach is fluttering with butterflies. Impatiently, he knocks on the prince’s door again with more force until he hears the familiar shout from the inside.

 

            Moments later, the door opens, and Gladiolus forces his expression to remain absolutely neutral at the visage of the prince. Noctis fills that pinstriped suit wonderfully, displaying his slender frame with grace and articulating his fine angles. His still disheveled hair is very and unexpectedly endearing to Gladiolus, and there is a part of him that is glad that he did nothing with it. His eyes are as gorgeously blue as ever. However, the prince’s expression is pouty and sullen with the obvious desire to stay home, play video games, and distance himself from the public.  

 

            “Well?” Noctis asks, shrugging his arms after gesturing to himself.

 

            Gladiolus straightens his posture before nodding and clearing his throat. “You look great.”

 

            Noctis gives the Shield a lingering once-over, and a pang of self-consciousness hits Gladiolus. (By the Six, he hopes his beard looks even.) But Noctis dispels that feeling with a quick, airy comment, “You clean up nice yourself.”

 

            Gladiolus relaxes and grins. “Glad that I’m up to your standards, Prince Charmless.”

 

            The prince gives a little huff of amusement. “Let’s just get tonight over with.”

 

            The pair walk comfortably close together through the hallway, to the lobby, and out the door, and Gladiolus struggles to detach himself from the situation. The Shield circles around his car to open the passenger door for Noctis, who nods and smiles with appreciation as he maneuvers into the car. The bodyguard is careful not to hurt the prince when he closes the car door, and he pauses to sigh and close his eyes, almost as if in supplication.

 

            Noctis is so pretty when he smiles.

 

            This seems suspiciously reminiscent of a date, and Gladiolus doesn’t know how to handle that, but he is slowly coming to terms with . . . whatever this is. The thought tickles as much as it disturbs him, if not more so.

 

            Gladiolus circles around again to open the driver’s door and maneuver inside the vehicle. While buckling in his seat belt, he notices that Noctis is staring chooses not to comment on it. He rather likes the attention. He slides the key into the ignition, and, with a turn of the key, the engine purrs into life.

 

            “Ready?” he asks, even if he already knows the answer.

 

            “Yeah,” the prince breathes, if not vaguely whiny.

 

            The way he says it makes Gladiolus smile, and he begins to drive the car to the citadel.

 

            The ball is to celebrate, honor, and commemorate peace within Insomnia and the arduous dedication of the Kingsglaive in the face of Imperial threat. Naturally, the ball would house a splendid orchestra, culinary delights, and fantastical lights and colors. The music that resounds from the orchestra sings its gentle music: feathery, bouncy, and charming, and the members of the elite Kingsglaive and nobles rejoice in the night’s frivolity, sipping from their crystalline wine glasses. Meat, fruits, and pastries from various Lucian regions mainly comprise the banquet table, compact with explosions of flavor. The lights from chandeliers brighten the room in an ethereal glow, beautiful and golden.

 

            Yet none hold a candle to the comforts of home for the prince, who seems to automatically deflate upon being within the ballroom. Gladiolus could only roll his eyes, silently questioning how he was roped into this, but he stands close, nearly hovering, because that is his job, not because he enjoys being so close to Noctis. He watches and follows the prince as he weaves seamlessly through the crowd to the other side of the ballroom to greet the King, but Gladiolus, with his unusually tall build, is attracting far more attention to the pair. Honestly, it should have been anticipated.

 

            Gladiolus can see that the attention vexes Noctis by judging the minute tension in his frame, and he rests a hand upon his shoulder on bizarre impulse. Noctis flinches and twists to see with widened eyes who imposes with their intruding touch, but relaxes when it is just Gladiolus.

 

            “What is it?” Noctis asks breathily, motioning for the pair to continue so that no one in the crowd stops to converse or ask questions.

 

            Gladiolus’s lips quirk in a weird sort of smile, but he goes along with his prince. “You look like a catoblepas is about to crush you.”

 

            “Might as well,” he grumbles.

 

            “Relax.” He gives his shoulder a comforting squeeze.

 

            “I am relaxed,” huffs the prince. “I am in my element, Gladio.”

 

            “Uh huh.” Gladiolus snickers.

 

            Noctis and Gladio approach their King of Lucis with a polite and customary bow. Gladiolus notes that King Regis retains his regality with the addition of good-natured humor that comes only from partaking in a glass or two of fine wine, manifested in a twinkling eye. Not far from the King is his own father, the King’s Sworn Shield, partaking in the delights of the banquet table, and a small smirk crosses onto his lips.

 

            Noctis awkwardly addresses their monarch, “Your Majesty.” He seems torn between the proper etiquette of titles and the desire to call the King something more personal.

 

            “Ah, Prince Noctis,” hums the King with a rare smile. “I am pleased to see that you grace us with your presence.”

 

            “You didn’t give me much of a choice.” Noctis bemoans in a tone that has place only as a son before his father, not as the Crown Prince before his King. King Regis clicks his tongue in mock disappointment in response, and when he is about to take another sip of the wine, Noctis rests his hand on the rim of the wine glass as a gentle reminder that it is perhaps best not for the King of their country to become drunk.

 

            King Regis sighs and lowers his wine glass, but then gestures to the happy and chatty crowd. “It would be wise to mingle, my son. As the future King, you will need to form lasting bonds with your subjects. There may come a time when diplomacy is needed above all else.”

 

            “I know.”

 

            “Then by all means,” he slurs, waving his hand toward the crowd as if in challenge.

 

            “Uh.” Noctis bristles and an embarrassed blush crosses his cheeks.

 

            Darting his eyes between the two members of the royal family, Gladiolus clears his throat, “Your Majesty?”

 

            “Gladiolus! My sincere apologies, I am afraid I did not see you there.”

 

            The Shield wishes he could laugh at the face that Noctis is making, which clearly reads: _How did you not see this behemoth of a man standing right beside me?_

 

            “Prince Noctis has just arrived at the Citadel. Maybe it is best if he relaxes and breathes in the atmosphere for a while?”

 

            It is a rather lame excuse, but it’s worth seeing Noctis’s face alight with immense gratitude at his intervention. King Regis gives Gladiolus a good stare before he ultimately relents, which is pleasantly unexpected. Perhaps the King may be tipsier and more open to suggestion than he previously thought, which definitely explains why his own father is watching their monarch with the eyes of a trained hawk.

 

            “Enjoy the ball, my son. Should you see a Glaive, mind your manners and do give your thanks.”

 

            Happily, Noctis bows, “I will, thank you. Enjoy your night, your Majesty.”

 

            The prince departs from the monarch, and Gladiolus nearly stumbles to keep pace with his charge. Once more, the pair weave through the crowd to a corner of the ballroom, where the prince sits on the edge of a chair and hopes that he will remain disregarded for the night. Although Gladiolus has a suspicion that his solitude will not last for long as a few party-goers, nobility and Glaive alike, are throwing casual glances in their direction.

 

            Gladiolus crosses his arms as he stands close by the prince. “You owe me.”

 

            “Yeah, yeah.” Noctis sighs. “Glad you came with me.”

 

            The bodyguard swells with a peculiar, giddy emotion. He tries to control the flush that threatens to tint his cheeks because how embarrassingly obvious would that be? “Yeah?” He clears his throat.

 

            “Yeah.” Noctis murmurs with what Gladiolus considers to be fondness.


	3. Broken Crystal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright! Another chapter! Yeah!
> 
> my game plan is that I finish this story, work on a chapter of Cam Stars, and then... perhaps... starting... another GladNoct multichapter story that popped in my head that refuses to leave ;-;
> 
> if anyone is curious about that, it's going to encompass fairy tale elements that are in those kinds of stories 
> 
> (i'm basically calling it a heavily canon divergent/fairy tale AU)

Watching the nobility waltz about the ballroom floor from a comfortable distance with Noctis is surprisingly not an unpleasant experience. The prince seems content to merely listen to the flow of the orchestral melody and observe the twirling dress skirts, and no one has approached to ask for either of their hands. Which is good, if not a little silly, because that means Gladiolus is doing his job right, standing imposingly with crossed arms and a tough expression on his face. Although, the longer his eyes linger among the crowd, the more he comes to wonder how the prince managed from learning how to dance, or, at the very least, waltz.

He leans close to Noctis, who has not budged from his seat, and says, “So, how’d you get out of your dance lessons?”

 

Noctis awkwardly laughs and rubs his nape. “Well, when I was younger, I put up a pretty good argument to convince dad to drop the tutors.”

“Oh?” Gladiolus raises a brow. To him, it is always a little jarring to hear Noctis refer to the King as his father, almost as if the prince quirks his lips in an odd way but catches himself.

“Yeah, I don’t remember. Something about wanting to spend more time with you—t-to train—I think.” Noctis stammers for a moment, and the Shield unwittingly savors that sound. “I thought Ignis was gonna have a conniption when said that I wasn’t gonna dance anymore.”

“Can’t believe you’d use me like that.” Gladiolus feigns offense and scoffs to cover that sudden burst of giddiness. “Still, I could hardly get you on the training mat back then. You were such a brat—still are.”

“You’re still a hard ass.” Noctis narrows his eyes in challenge, his tone overwhelming frank.

 

“Someone’s gotta keep you in line.” Gladiolus could not help but grin at that. “You know, I oughta force you out onto the dance floor, twinkle toes. Maybe someone will come snatch you up; I’m sure that you’ll figure it out as you go along.”

“Gods,  _ no _ !” The mortified expression on the prince’s face and the way he clings to his chair are more than enough to make Gladiolus laugh.

Gladiolus recovers with a smile. “Relax.” On impulse, Gladiolus ruffles his raven hair and is quietly enamored by its softness and length. His hand slips from his crown to tuck a lock of hair behind his ear, and his hand rebounds as if he touched fire when Noctis stares into him with wide eyes. Suddenly, his mouth and throat feel dry, and he pushes himself from the wall on which he was leaning. His tongue darts out to wet his lips, “I-I need a drink. Want one?”

 

“S-Sure!” Noctis sounds breathless when he stammers, pretty lips slightly parted.

 

Immediately, Gladiolus departs from the prince with a palpable embarrassment following his every step toward the banquet table, weaving and disappearing through the crowds. Thankfully, the King and his father are no longer hovering about the alcohol, so Gladiolus thinks nothing of when he arrives at the table and downs a glass of wine. Setting the crystal down with little to no finesse, the Shield rolls his eyes and groans.

 

Gladiolus turns around to watch the ladies and gentlemen waltz to the music, and an odd, weighty forlornness places a burden upon his chest. A dull, growing irritation wells within his system, and he is certain that the bounce of the orchestra is not helping his mood. He sighs his frustrations into the ballroom as he acquires two more glasses of wine; in the end, it does not matter what he feels, he could never act upon them.

 

He wonders from where these feeling sprung in the first place, and questions assault him on all fronts. When did those simple touches from soft hands stop being so simple? When did that spark of determination behind his blue eyes ignite a fire within him, too? When did that smile  _ get _ him?

 

A headache blooms.

 

Still, the thought of Noctis sitting alone convinces the begrudging bodyguard to return with drinks in hand. Idly, Gladiolus wonders if he would appreciate the white or red wine. He weaves through the crowd when a spot of commotion happens ahead, where the nobles gasp in horror, a serving plate clatters upon the ground, the crystalline wine glasses shatter, and various wines drench the front of the suit of the crown prince. Gladiolus practically glides to Noctis’s side.

 

“I am  _ so _ sorry, your Highness!” Pleads the server, who is frantically trying to wipe the disastrous mess on the front of his suit with his own white sleeves. “I can’t believe—oh, please forgive me, your Highness. This was all my fault!”

 

“It’s—It’s fine!” Noctis responds sheepishly, weakly pushing away the server’s hands. “It was an accident.”

 

Gladiolus trudges forward to separate the pair by placing himself between the men, and he glares at the server with distaste. A hand grasps onto his bicep in a firm vice and yanks him back, and his head whips around and down to see Noctis, flustered and frustrated. Gladiolus eases due to that intense gaze alone, but the tense edge to his shoulders remain. 

 

Seeing such an imposing and intimidating man in uniform—the prince’s Shield, he realizes—causes tears to well in his eyes. He clasps his hands together and bows in low, deep remorse. “I am so, so sorry!”

 

Gladiolus scrutinizes the prince, whose ear tips are flushing, when he touches the server’s shoulder with all the lightness of a feather, but then his view broadens to the prying crowd. A deep need to protect Noctis from the staring and gossiping crowd bubbles within his chest, but he does not react upon it. “It wasn’t your fault, it was mine. I wasn’t watching where I was going,” he says awkwardly, and his lips purse. “Can I help you?”

 

“N-No!” The server yelps, bolting upright. He invests a few moments to calm himself with careful breathing. “No, no, please. Don’t trouble yourself any further, your Highness. I can clean this mess myself.”

 

Hesitantly, the prince steps back from the situation, tugging Gladiolus along by his arm and ignoring the attention of the other nobles. 

 

“Noct.” Gladiolus frowns. “Are you alright?”

 

Noctis releases him, and, although it is inappropriate to be thinking of this, Gladiolus misses the warmth of his hand. Upon further scrutiny, Gladiolus notices that last of Noctis’s composure is gone—he appears quite embarrassed and red. Being the center of attention was never his sort of thing, and the man feels rather sorry for the prince. His hands fumble with the hair about his face as if trying to hide, and he mumbles quietly, too quietly for Gladiolus to hear.

 

“What was that?” He grunts.

 

“I want to go home,” he murmurs. The smelly wine has certainly ruined the fabric of that dashing black suit, and its owner appears absolutely miserable. The mild and ineffective cleaning that the server attempted did nothing for the suit either. Gladiolus, still holding these damn wine glasses, feels like an ass, especially for abandoning the prince by himself to save face.

 

“Alright, princess.” There is a sympathetic quirk to his lips. 


	4. Little Finger

The car reeks with the stench of expensive alcohol. Gladiolus maintains his sight on the smooth road, but he manages a few glances aside to Noctis. He seems a little morose and irritated. He would be, too, if a platter of wine had drenched through and ruined his good suit. Pursing his lips, Gladiolus sighs heavily through his nose.

 

“Sorry ‘bout the wine bath, Noct,” he apologizes, even though he had nothing for which to apologize. Gladiolus winces.

 

For a while, Noctis does not respond, but when he does, his tone falls into resignation. “It’s fine. I wasn’t paying attention to the guy, and I rammed right into him.”

 

“What were you doing? I thought you were going to wait for me.” His brows furrow and his grip tightens on the steering wheel.

 

“I was trying to find _you_ ,” he huffs. Quickly, perhaps a tad too quickly, he adds, “I didn’t like how people were staring at me when you left.”

 

Gladiolus spares another glance toward the prince and notices that a blush is dancing across his features. Noctis is so lovely that it _hurts_ —so newly ethereal that he does not understand how he could not have noticed sooner. Yet, seemingly hundreds of questions flood through his mind at the mere sight of a blush that he cannot comprehend. Is he embarrassed? Is he nervous? Is he confessing that he was lonely? Is he reading too much into this?

 

“I was thirsty.” The Shield responds weakly, gaze returning to the road. Suddenly, he realizes how that _awful_ that may sound and corrects himself, “I needed a drink.”

 

A quiet chuckle sounds beside him. “I got you the first time.”

 

“Punk.” A wry smile crosses onto his lips, and his grip on the steering wheel relaxes. Instead of allowing the atmosphere to fall to silence again, he voices another question: “Why me?”

 

“What’re you talking about?” Noctis fiddles with the ornate buttons on the front of his pinstriped suit in idle motions.

 

“Why did you ask me to tag along?” He clarifies, but he gets the impression from Noctis that he didn’t really have to clarify. “I dunno. Why not Iggy?—Prompto, even?” He feels a tad silly for mentioning their other blond friend, but it slipped out before he could stop himself.

 

“Was that a joke?” He hears Noctis speak with a slight smile on his lips. “Man, I can’t even imagine Prompto going to a ball. He isn’t exactly _comfortable_ being at those sort of highbrow parties.”

 

“Neither are you,” he points out, “and you’re the prince of Lucis.”

 

Noctis shrugs sheepishly, unable to deny his claim. “Yeah, well . . .”

 

Gladiolus clears his throat. “Why not Ignis?”

 

Noctis pauses, perhaps pausing for longer than necessary, before responding. “I didn’t want to go with Ignis; he would’ve made me dance with some lady I don’t know.”

 

“That so?” He taps his fingers on the steering wheel. The younger man is fibbing, he realizes. Ignis may bemoan and disapprove of how the prince does not know the very basics of the aristocratic etiquette, but he would not be so cruel as to shove Noctis into the fray. If anything, Ignis seems to be wrapped around Noctis’s little finger, if only in some aspects of the prince’s life.

 

“Yep.” His nonchalance is unapologetic and so obviously practiced.

 

The Shield cannot understand why he is fibbing, but he decides to allow Noctis this small and simple victory. Maybe he can beat the answer out of him on the training mat next morning. Gladiolus turns the car into the parking lot a distance from the apartment complex. He eases into a good spot to leave, parking, unbuckling from the seat, and withdrawing his keys from the ignition. When he glances to Noctis, his memory flashes to that pinstripe suit, pristine and handsome, and that blue-eyed appraisal appearing from the apartment doorway. He swallows when Noctis spares him a glance that connects them.

 

“Need me to get the door for you?” He asks stupidly, but the prince just smirks.

 

“I think I can manage.” And he does, after unbuckling from his seat belt.

 

Gladiolus curses to the Astrals for that slight moment alone before he gets over himself, maneuvering out of the car. With a beep, the car locks, and then the Shield escorts his prince into the building and to his door. He watches Noctis fumble with the lock on his door with blatant interest, but he stands a distance as to not be overbearing, staring at hands that appear delicate but tell of callouses earned from combative training. A touch of pride swells within his chest, but when the prince swings his door open and enters his home, disappointment assumes the place of pride.

 

“Goodnight, your Highness,” he says softly, training his eyes to keep his disappointment at bay. He turns on his heel to leave, but then Noctis interjects.

 

“Gladio,” he says, leaning against his door with most of his weight and pressing his cheek against its edge. Gladiolus thinks that he looks rather cute with his cheek squished like that, and the thought preoccupies him so much that he nearly misses what the prince whispers. “D’you wanna stick around for a while?”

 

“Sure.” Gladiolus nearly flinches from the sound of his own response, so instantaneous, immediate, and low.

  
Maybe he is wrapped around Noctis’s little finger, too.


End file.
